


Emersion

by Anonymous



Category: The Expanse (TV)
Genre: Belter Culture and Customs, Gen, Tattoos, hair styling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-25
Updated: 2021-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-27 21:28:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30129114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: emersion:the reappearance of a celestial body after an eclipse or occultationCamina doesn't even know why she's at this felota party on Tycho, and she certainly doesn't know why Chrisjen Avasarala is making a point of chatting with her about tattoos and other pointless things.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17
Collections: Worldbuilding Exchange 2021





	Emersion

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Isis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isis/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this, Isis! I had a lot of fun writing a conversation between two of my favourite characters.

Camina wasn’t sure why she was even at this felota party to welcome the new head of Tycho. The man didn’t have near the weight or trust of Fred Johnson and never would, even if he was a true Belter, born on Ganymede. She felt her lip curl every time she looked at him, but she could not afford to make any new enemies these days, especially not with a man who could put the _Dewalt_ at the bottom of the maintenance roster—Michio and Josep had begged her to mind her manners. So she was mostly standing in a corner and staring into her drink. At least it was decent whisky, in memory of Fred. And the food was good, and filling for fancy party bites—more vat-grown protein than she’d seen in years. 

The UN woman Avasarala stalked across the room in a blindingly ornate embroidered coat of rust-coloured silk, snagged another glass from a tray as it floated by, and said, “So tell me what these tattoos you all have mean.”

“Go ask Naomi,” Camina countered. This new Prime Minister of all the Earthers was cozy with the crew of the _Roci_ ; she’d seen them all orbiting her earlier, laughing like old friends.

“She’ll just tell me a polite lie, if she doesn’t want to offend me.” The older woman took a sip, her eyes over the rim of her glass shining bright in their fine web of creases and her voice as smoky as the whisky. “From you I know I’ll get either the truth, or 'fuck off, old woman'.”

Camina laughed, startling herself. “Maybe I’ll lie just to confuse you now.”

“Maybe,” Avasarala allowed, the enormous red stone in her ring flashing like a proximity warning. “But I’m pretty good at spotting a lie. And I’m curious about the designs I see on all the faces and necks around me. Do they symbolize social ties, or are they personal?”

“You must know what the neck rings for,” Camina said shortly. “Every Earther love to hear that story, so primitive. How it stand for marks from bad helmet seals.”

Most Beltalowda started with their neck tatuyingi, but Camina had never been the kind to do what was expected; as her other-mother liked to say, she was a cross-grained koyo. So her first piece of ink was a small map on her ribs: an abstract chart of the tunnels and corridors that made up her first universe, where she was born, Pallas. She liked knowing it was there, and that no-one she didn’t want to see it would. 

“I know the history of it, yes. But you don’t have one.” And Camina felt the woman’s gaze examine the black quarter-circle on the side of her throat.

“Didn’t want to carry scars of old battles I never fought in.” Camina took another gulp of whisky from her glass, surprised by her own honesty. She touched the design on her neck with a finger, tracing it as surely though she could feel the lines of ink on her skin. “This one is all me. I make things, I fix them.”

“You were an engineer.”

“Still am. Even if they call me Captain too.”

Avasarala smiled, a practiced but warm expression that nearly had Camina wanting to grin back. “I wish I’d learned a more useful trade than politics.”

Camina did smile then. “No, you don’t. You’re like Naomi—you talk a good game about not wanting something, but when you have a choice, you choose it again. Anyway, it’s not so strange.” She flicked a finger toward Avasarala’s massive, glittering collar necklace of multicoloured stones. “Even if Belters were rich enough to waste metal, jewellery not best idea in space. But people are people: always going to decorate themselves, they just do it in other ways. Hair, skin…”

“Makeup,” the older woman said, nodding at Camina’s eyes smudged dark with kohl over the whole lid. “Or should I say war paint.”

“Good for glare,” Camina said. “And makes me look like a proper fierce Belter.” She narrowed her gaze deliberately.

“I’ve noticed the different braid styles, too,” Avasarala said, looking at Camina’s hair drawn back on both sides from a central twist and entwined in a complicated loop at the back of her head. They’d had the time this morning and Michio felt like doing something fancy, so Camina had let her—now they were docked on Tycho, it wasn’t like she’d be in a helmet much for a while. 

“Just fashion.” Camina shrugged. “Trends, sabe? Kids on one rock, they start doing they hair a certain way, then it spread. By the time it orbit back around, everybody doing something else. Except us old people, we stick with what we like.”

She thought Avasarala might be insulted, but the other woman just raised her glass. “Hear, hear. On Luna minimalism is back, apparently, but I’m not about to start dressing like a lab tech.”

“What about you? No tatuyingi?” She smirked at Avasarala’s offended glare. “Some innalowda have them, I know—like that Burton from the _Roci_.”

“Amos is a hoodlum,” Avasarala said, though it sounded fond rather than derogatory. “I’m too refined for any such thing.”

Camina raised her eyebrows skeptically and the old woman laughed, a delighted throaty croak. 

“Mostly, if I’d ever marked my skin like that when I was young, my parents would have been horrified. And by the time I was old enough not to care about their opinion, I realized tattoos weren’t for me anyway. I prefer less permanent accessories.” She touched the largest central stone of her collar. “There’s a reason these used to be dowries in ancient days on Earth—portable wealth.”

“Not so precious in space.” Camina scoffed, unimpressed. The Belt didn’t want gold or diamonds.

Avasarala smiled slyly. “Even if it’s all high quality photonic crystals? Quite useful, not to mention valuable, out here, I’m told.”

Startled, Camina revised her estimate of the necklace’s value upward by a factor of ten. If Avasarala was telling the truth, the price of a small freighter hung around her neck. “Some pirates might be tempted by that,” Camina told her, eying the immense faceted stones. “Good thing my ship array already repaired.”

Avasarala’s laugh rang out louder this time, and a subtle ripple ran through the crowded room as heads turned to look in their direction. Camina wondered what the woman’s purpose was, making sure the two of them were seen together.

“My bodyguard is right over there.” She nodded at a brawny Martian watching them stolidly from a position along the wall. Ex-Marine, had to be; there was no disguising that planet-developed muscle and braced posture that came from the constant weight of gravity. “But if you feel like taking on Bobbie, be my guest.”

“What you want with a Belter pirate, anyway?” Camina asked. “Plenty more important koyos in this room.”

Avasarala swirled the liquid in her glass, watching it slowly tilt with a small frown. “I’ve never been to Tycho before—I haven’t spent a lot of time in space, period. It gets harder on these old bones every time I do. I’d prefer to stay at home and not have to get any farther from Earth than Luna. That means Marco Inarro needs to be stopped.”

“On that, we agree,” Camina said with a bite. “I’d love to put that pashangwala down. Someday I’ll get lucky and his ship will be in my sights again. But not for long.”

“Always nice to see a little bloodlust. But to stop Marco, we don’t just need to shoot him. We need someone who can unite the Belt against him. Show them there’s something better than the Free Navy or whatever he calls himself. And I think you might be the best choice we’ve got.”

Camina blinked. “Then you really in trouble. If Fred Johnson, he couldn’t do it, or Dawes, why me? Nobody know me.”

“Just a simple ship captain, hmm?” Avasarala smirked. “Nice try, but I doubt it. Your career’s had quite an interesting trajectory over the past few years.”

“I’m still no politician.”

“Politics is just the art of getting people to do what you want without violence. Most of the time. And you know Marco’s no god or genius, you were willing to stand up to him and take him on.”

“My record not so good,” Camina muttered. “I didn’t even slow him down. Why not Naomi or Holden? They’re the shiny heroes.”

She snorted. “Holden wouldn’t last a week in one place before something new and shiny distracted him. And Naomi’s brilliant, all right, but her talents don’t lie in politics. You don’t need to be a hero for this job, Captain Drummer. God knows I’m not—just a stubborn old woman.”

Camina hadn’t known what to expect when Avasarala came up to her. This was the Earther who’d tortured an OPA fighter and launched this whole war, from one perspective. But she found herself liking the woman’s “shoot me or get out of my way” attitude; it felt familiar to Camina, more comfortable than Holden’s mealy-mouthed politeness. Even Naomi was becoming almost too much of a pacifist these days. 

Then Camina realized who Avasarala reminded her of—she was as ruthless and pragmatic as Ashford. Another one who’d bargain with anyone if she thought she could work with them; she didn’t have to like you, but you crossed her at your peril. 

“It has to be someone like you.” Avasarala leaned closer, her eyes fixing on Camina with an intensity that was a little intimidating. She wasn’t about to show it, though; she stood straight and looked down at the old woman with a cold expression. “Someone who’s one of them—a true Belter. But willing to work with anyone, Inner or not, as long as they’re true to their word. And willing to break with old loyalties when they don’t make sense any longer.” She spread her empty hand in a gesture of encouragement, the rings on it glittering. 

“What are you saying, exactly?” Camina folded her arms in front of herself, letting her empty glass droop from her fingers. “Be specific.”

“The UN would be willing to help as much as it could, if you led a counterweight to Inarros’ Free Navy faction—”

“ _If_ ,” Camina said. “If I did any such thing, it would be because the Belt needed it. Not because Earthers and Martians wanted it to happen.”

“Of course.”

Camina had been drifting for a while. Now that Ashford was gone—after Marco fucking Inarros had taken him and Serge from Camina, and tried to kill Naomi—and after her _Dewalt_ family split apart under the pressure, she’d needed time to think. To figure out what next. Going up against Marco had put her on a certain side, in the eyes of the whole galaxy, though she never meant to do that when she started. She just wanted to make him pay. A man like that, who slid through life without getting any shit on him somehow, needed to learn the cost of his actions.

That didn’t change the fact she still had to find some way to make a living. And because she was openly Marco’s enemy now, certain jobs would never be available to her again.

Which meant, much as it made her stomach roil to think about doing what any innalowda wanted, Avasarala’s offer might be the best one she’d get. Plus it meant the possibility of revenge, which was always worth considering.

Camina grabbed another glass of whiskey from the floating tray making its orbit of the room. “I’m listening,” she said. “And right now that’s all I’m doing. So make it good.” 

It was time for some new ink, Camina decided. Something that would put this time just passed into memory, seal it in lines on her skin so that it wasn’t in her head all the time. (She knew that wasn’t how it worked, but sometimes you had to pretend.)

It had taken a while to think of the right image, all the time spent repairing the _Dewalt_ and trying to repair the crew. She wasn’t sure if they’d ever be a family again, or just crew. But you couldn’t keep hold of people if they didn’t want to stay—Oksana showed her that. If Michio and Josep were too angry with her to forgive, better they learn that and go now before it broke them later. Still, no matter what they chose in the end, she wasn’t about to forget them. Or any of the rest of her family. 

The design was a linked constellation of circles and hexagons; could be organic, like a cell structure or a molecule. Only Camina knew which ones stood for who, and why some were solidly inked in and others just outlined. And it was on her inner forearm, where it would be visible most of the time, especially when she was working. Because those people had made Camina, and they should be seen.

By the time the final line had been stitched buzzing into her skin, she’d made her decision.

**Author's Note:**

> The theory of Belter neck ring tattoos mimicking scars from cheap helmet seals was suggested by Anderson Dawes' dialogue about his scars in season one, and is stated as fact on many fan websites (though without any cited source that I could find). Everything else about Belter culture in this story is my invention.
> 
> The idea of Avasarala trying to recruit Drummer into politics was partly suggested by her canon job in _Persepolis Rising_.


End file.
